


Their First Time to Lie Together

by ponderinfrustration



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Non-Graphic Smut, Not-quite porn, pwp anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 04:46:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1538120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Though it's not their first time to share a bed, it is the first time that the boys make love to each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Their First Time to Lie Together

**Author's Note:**

> Titled after a line in the Garth Brooks song 'The Night Will Only Know'

Their first time is gentle, careful, indeed, sensuous. (And John can’t deny that there was a time where he thought none of those terms could apply to Sherlock.) Though they mutually agree that each is ready, it is a long time before either of them is able to move in that direction, still afraid of breaking this new, fragile thing between them, each content to trade kisses and closeness, wary of anything more.

Eventually, it is John who plucks up the courage with not-so-innocent fingertips tracing over scars and muscles, memorising the definition of each, followed by a tongue along alabaster skin, perpetually terrified of overwhelming Sherlock. It is slow, meticulous work, but neither wants to rush, each needing to desperately savour these moments, to taste and feel and _know_.

When John finally, and oh so slowly, takes Sherlock in his mouth, the burst of sensation is almost, _almost,_ too much for the good detective, his long fingers scrabbling for purchase in the doctor’s short hair, nails biting into delicate shoulder muscle.  His voice as he comes is hoarse, ragged, crying out into the still flat as his brain temporarily goes off-line, blood rushing away, urgently needed elsewhere. Sinking back, loose-limbed and limp, still gasping for breath, he pulls John up to his level, lips tenderly pressing together, tongue probing, exploring this newness, this thing of beauty.

The night draws on much the same, more explorations though this time the wandering fingers are longer, refined, belonging to a violinist. And so the dawn finds them, curled together in the mess they’ve made, satiated and worn-out, dreaming the dreams of the thoroughly loved.


End file.
